


A Real Good Day

by snakejolras



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, art and murder and allusions oh my, serial killer!Grantaire/profiler!Enjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2017-12-21 08:29:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakejolras/pseuds/snakejolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is a behavioural analyst. Grantaire, he’s an artist. He thinks Enjolras is an artist too, he just needs to realize his genius.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

_“Death is on your heels, baby, and sooner or later it’s gonna catch you. And part of you wants it… not only to stop the fear and uncertainty, but because you’re just a little bit in love with it. Death is your art. You make it with your hands, day after day. That final gasp. That look of peace. Part of you is desperate to know: What’s it like? Where does it lead you? And now you see, that’s the secret. Not the punch you didn’t throw or the kicks you didn’t land. (...) ...you’re just putting off the inevitable. Sooner or later, you’re gonna want it. And the second- the second- that happens… You know I’ll be there. I’ll slip in… **have myself a real good day.”**_

 

**I own nothing but my own words xoxo**

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The age was so corrupted. A common notion, yes, but no less true. The world slowly morphing into a technological shell,  leaving very little to no room for anything which hands could touch. Most people could care less, convenience is key in easier survival, so why care about it? Yet, Grantaire, he was a man of classics. Soft scores through contact, bone sensually meeting key. A brush gripped lightly in hand, stroking with purpose. Paint thirsting for a canvas, and his was waiting.

 

Art is a science, specific and though not pointed. Everything has it’s place amongst the chaos, it just has to search for it until everything fits just as the variables turn into a masterpiece. There is a calm in the storm, and it needs to connect it’s winds. Your canvas waits patiently for your inspiration to scream itself to death as your paint flows, and then the drops collect themselves in the most beautiful way. It has all become one but that is not where it ends.

 

An artist knows where they want their work to be, but very few get it there. So far as Grantaire was concerned, there was a way around that. Make your own display, make sure it can be seen. Pull the blindfold of naivety away from the world’s eyes, and let them see what art looks like.

 

The cynic’s era of expression would follow.

 

\---

 

The smack against the desk was enough to warrant a punch in the face, had Courfeyrac been closer, but he knew better than that at this point. He took a large step back and watched the jolt in the other man’s shoulders, blonde curls shifting on the desk as Enjolras’ head lifted to give him the best exhausted look of disdain he could manage. Courfeyrac sighed. “Man, don’t you have a bed? Or ever go home?”

 

Enjolras sat up, rubbing at his face before his look of annoyance became more solid and powerful. “Of course I do. I was busy, it happens.”

 

“So do back problems, which is what you’re going to have if you keep sleeping on your desk.” He released another sigh and Enjolras simply continued to stare at him. “Whatever. If you want coffee, get it fast, ‘Ferre and Bahorel are waiting for you.”

 

Enjolras began to rub at his eyes as the other man finished, quickly standing up instead. “Where?” Courfeyrac blinked, and Enjolras matched it. “....What?”

 

“It’s a homicide, take it down a few pegs.”

 

“I wasn’t....” The blond sighed, closing his eyes and taking in a breath. “Okay. Where?”

 

Courfeyrac shrugged, pulling the keys out of his pocket. “Art gallery. They need me too, I’ll drive, come on.”

 

Enjolras squinted, following him as he started walking. “You’re the analyst, shouldn’t you be there already?”

 

With the other man’s back to him, his eyes rolling was still close to audible. “Someone needed to wake you up, I lost. Besides, Bahorel called and they haven’t done much with the scene yet anyhow.”

 

As they walked outside Enjolras tried not to squint at the sudden brightness. “Why not?”

 

There was a silence, one to the extent that to anyone else would have become uncomfortable. Courfeyrac looked back at him before walking toward the driver’s side of the car. “....This one is yours.”

 

\---

 

Most homicide detectives that Enjolras had met were perpetually distraught. It made sense, of course, and the fact that he understood that and didn’t get upset in return only seemed to make them hate him more. Most of them, he found, also despised television shows depictions of them. They didn’t always push themselves to the very heart of the matter, or shove a suspect up against an interrogation room wall when overworked. Most of them just wanted to do their damn job and go to bed. This consensus of anger and apathy, more than anything, left him wondering just where Combeferre and Bahorel came from.

 

If any pair could ever fall under the cliched foundation of good cop, bad cop, it was the two of them. Combeferre was one of the most clear headed and calm men that Enjolras had ever met, especially within law enforcement. Were it not for the extreme commitment he had to his job, it would be a wonder how he even got there. He could logically see every side of a story, and in doing so made for a damned good detective. The acclaim with which he could be given for this made all the more sense as to why he would be given Bahorel as a partner.

 

Bahorel could see things clearly, he just couldn’t take them as well as could Combeferre. Rather, he probably appreciated the media’s interpretation of throwing a suspect against the wall, Enjolras had seen him do so more than once. As aggressive as he could be, when it came to witnesses and attempted victims, he was oddly gentle, though it was best not to call him on that. The two detectives evened one another out quite well, and made a fantastic pair, if not seeming a bit characterical. They were easier to predict once you got to know them, and the sight of them standing outside of the crime scene tape, Bahorel impatiently, made Enjolras quirk the smallest smile.

 

“Oh, sleeping beauty is off his ass, about damn time.” Bahorel’s rough voice was loud enough that Enjolras could hear it through window and he sighed before getting out of the car.

 

“I am not that hard to wake up, you three exaggerate.”

 

Courfeyrac chimed in as he walked out of the car as well, moving to the back of it. “Hard? No. Scary? Yes. Were it not for my being faster than you, you would’ve punched me in the face more than once by now.”

 

“That’s why we pick you.” Bahorel smirked. “You could use a black eye, pretty you up a little.”

 

The analyst rolled his eyes, not looking up. “Please, I’m pretty enough. Not everyone wants to look like Rocky after he lost a fight, Stallone.”

 

Enjolras walked over to Combeferre before he could hear Bahorel come up with a response. “Where do you need me?”

 

Combeferre nodded toward the building, peeling his eyes away from the other two and speaking quietly. “In here, come on.”

 

The two passed through the yellow tape, moving into the front entrance of the gallery, Enjolras staring at the other man along the way. “Courfeyrac said this one is mine. Why is that?”

 

Combeferre didn’t respond or look at him until they hit the showroom entrance, where more tape was strung. He stopped, turning to look at him. “Take a look.”

 

Enjolras blinked, watching him a moment longer before nodding and crossing through the tape and opening the door. He stopped immediately where he was, focusing on the center of the room. There was a sculpture on display, bronze and spiked, abstract in some way he assumed, but that wasn’t what mattered. On the top and tallest spike legs dangled in the back, arms and head thrown back in the front, a body skewered on the spike through the abdomen. Enjolras was glued to where he stood, staring at the sight.

 

“Unique, huh?” Bahorel’s voice echoing through the gallery made Enjolras jump only slightly, blinking back into reality. “Creepy as all fuck, but definitely new. Up your freaky alley.”

 

Enjolras blinked again, shaking his head and turning to look at both detectives now standing there before looking at the body again. “....Where’s the blood?” He took a few steps closer, examining. “You don’t impale someone like this without them bleeding out, the floor and the sculpture should be covered. They drained the body first.” He turned to look at them both, each of them looking at each other.

 

Combeferre looked back at him first. “That’s what Courf is for, we were hoping he could find something. They may have drained the body somewhere else on purpose.” Enjolras looked away, and the detective continued. “...Unless you’re thinking something else. Maybe they’re keeping it?”

 

Enjolras stepped away from the sculpture, looking at the wall of covered paintings. “....Have you spoken to the director, do they cover the paintings when they close?”

 

“We spoke to her, but we didn’t ask.” Bahorel raised a brow, watching him. “She was a bit freaked out, you know, with her new dead body display.”

 

Combeferre gave Bahorel a look before glancing toward the wall. “Should we ask her?”

 

Enjolras walked closer still, looking at the largest covered canvas on the middle of the wall, adjacent to the sculpture itself. His eyes travelled toward the floor, and he knelt down close, focusing on small, scarlet droplets which seemed to have dried there. He rubbed his finger against it to pick it up, sniffing it and recognizing the faint hint of metallic.  He stood again, staring at the covered canvas. “No.”

 

He grabbed ahold of the cover, pulling it away and freezing in place again, Bahorel’s voice the only one in the room to sound. “ _Holy shit._ ”

 

The canvas was a bright white that stood out more amongst it’s contents. The splatters that covered it were Pollockesque and varying between large sprays of bright red and strong, rich droplets of burgundy that combined in a way which was morbidly artistic, and Enjolras tilted his head as one would in trying to decipher an abstract. He blinked, turning fully around. “You’re right. This one is mine.”

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 **contact;** snakejolras on tumblr;


	2. Chapter 2

**contact** ; snakejolras @ tumblr

* * *

The scene itself didn't take much time to finish up, especially when a majority of their evidence was contained within a canvas. Much of it consisted of photographs, maybe more than necessary, but Enjolras had insisted on most of them.  He'd also ensured they be processed and printed when they had gotten back to the precinct. He took them into an empty room, laying them out as they closely and with enough organization as so he was still at the scene itself, sitting next to them and occassionally picking one up and inspecting it closer. When he heard someone knock against the door his shoulders jolted up a bit, almost a jump, and continued as he was despite feeling the other man's gaze on him.

"You know, those are digital. You don't have to do it like this." Enjolras gave a hint of a smile at Combeferre's voice and said nothing, causing the other man to sigh. "It's past noon, you've been in here too long to not have something. Or you can at least look at them at your desk so I'm not the only one who has to listen to Bahorel while you do."

Enjolras looked up at him, shrugging. "This is new to me, I want to make sure I have everything right."

Combeferre nodded, looking away. "Yeah, well....we're on a time frame, unfortunately."

Enjolras nodded, picking up photos. "This is a serial killer, I am aware."

"Not what I meant." 

Enjolras froze where he was, somewhere between his mind pausing for an intake of horror and complete exasperation. Finally he came back to reality with a sigh, looking at him again. "Thenardier could smell the blood, hmm?"

Combeferre gave him a look as he continued to pick up photos, more frantically now. "He's doing his job."

"His "job" is to expolit murders for entertainment, it's disgusting and I won't appease him just because he can try to hold out for any words he can grab onto to blow things out of proportion and dehumanize victims. So, really, I don't care."

"Yes, I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear you're the one taking charge here." The other man spoke with a sigh, causing Enjolras to stop his organizing and stare at him with a raised brow. "Hey, don't look at me like that, I didn't say I have a problem with it. Refreshing actually." Combeferre watched him for a moment longer as he returned to the photos before sighing within his words once again. "Do you want me to bring everyone else in here?"

Enjolras glanced back up at him, biting his lip before looking back down and speaking more calmly, "...Yes."

Combeferre continued to watch him before nodding, turning away and closing the door with barely a sound, only for Courfeyrac to fling it open a moment later. The look that Enjolras had given to the detective before returned as the photos still left on the floor blew along a bit, and Courfeyrac made a bit of a hissing noise. "Sorry. ...Don't look at me like that, that's actually scary." 

Enjolras rolled his eyes and looked away as Combeferre returned and Bahorel followed, with Joly and Eponine behind them.  Eponine glanced around before looking at Enjolras. "You couldn't have picked a room with chairs?" 

"Please, 'ponine, Enjolras is a man of simple taste. Not sleeping in a bed, not sitting in chairs...." Courferyrac trailed off as Enjolras looked at him again. "Okay, got it. Let's just do this."

Enjolras gave a hint of a smirk and nodded and Joly locked the door, standing as the rest of them all sat down in a semi-circle. There were only a handful of the photos now left on the floor, but they were organized specifically. "So, we're on a limited time frame," Enjolras began. "but from what I can tell, this crime scene reads like an artwork."

Bahorel scoffed, looking at him. "Yeah, pretty sure that was the whole point of the art gallery. Maybe try starting with something we don't know." 

"That's not what I mean." He sighed quickly, picking up a picture of the canvas. "He's a copycat. He made abstract art out of blood spatter, something which Jackson Pollock's paintings used to reflect. And this," he picked up another, a front side of the victim sprawn across the sculpture. "I've seen this, I know I have. He's copying artists, and there has to be a reason. Whoever he is choosing, they reflect something in him."

"So he's not just an artist, he wants to give you a message you know you can find right away." Combeferre looked at the photos before meeting Enjolras' eye. "Why?"

Bahorel rolled his eyes, "Because he wants the attention. Not that hard to figure out."

"No." Enjolras shook his head, quieter. "If he just wanted attention he could be more rash than this. He'd seen abrupt, purposely angry and scary messages. This he somehow thinks is okay. It's not the murder he cares about, it's the works he makes. ...I think he wants someone to see parts of him he thinks he can't get out."

"Pollock was an alcoholic." Everyone looked back toward the door at Joly, who stood up a bit straighter and looked away. "I...went on this museum tour. With biographies of artists. He was an alcoholic, scared people a good bit of the time with it." 

Enjolras held the picture he was still holding out to him, looking directly at him. "Do you know this?"

Joly took a small step closer, squinting despit his glasses and noddiing, softly. "Blondel, I think. Minus the uhm..." he closed his eyes, trying not to cringe at the word. "The spike. But the positoning." He opened his eyes, shaking his head. "But I can't think of anything notable about the artist."

Enjolras nodded, sitting the photo back down. "What's the painting?"

"The Fall of Icarus. ...Do you think that'll tell you something too?"

Enjolras blinked, settling back into his seat. "Yeah, I think that'll help." He offered a small smile. "Thank you." He quickly began grabbing the rest of the photos and stood, looking at Joly first. "Let me know if the body has anything you think is significant too." He glanced at Eponine and Courfeyrac as he stepped toward the door. "And either of you let me know if you find anything on the canvas."

The rest of them looked back at him as they began to stand and Bahorel raised a brow, "Where the hell are you going?"

"To work, what do you think?"

"Uh-uh. Not alone, anyway."

Enjolras blinked, turning around again. "...Why not?"

Bahorel smirked, walking closer. "Because if you get to be the leader on this case, you get to deal with the new guy. He'll be here in an hour." 

"...Isn't this a bit much to put on them at once?"

Bahorel shook his head, walking past him to the door. "Nah, it's not like it's action, it's just the psych flavouring of paperwork and traning. You'll barely know he's there. Or...well, yeah, you, you will. His name's Pontmercy, don't ditch him in the suburbs."

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took me so long, i was between both college things as well as trying to decide if i even like this universe at all. but i'll try to keep it going now, as well as longer chapters. and this may be getting out of character to an extent in places i'm just making it up as i go along in that sense really. i apologize if so. i am available on tumblr @ snakejolras

He's there in less than an hour, much to Enjolras' disappointment, since he'd been waiting for an hour on the dot to just leave and use tardiness as an excuse. No, it takes him thirty-seven minutes instead, and then there is a shadow cast over Enjolras' desk, shifting every so often, in the way one only would when they aren't honestly sure what to do with themselves. Enjolras glances up at him, scanning him over quickly. He's tall, very tall, which explains the obstructive shadow- that and the fact that he was bent over, hovering over the desk in a hesitant way. His hands were fidgeting, clasped in front of him, and Enjolras wasn't sure if it was habitual or if it was nerves. Regardless, he was very distracted by the papers scattered all over the desk, and Enjolras put on the most proper, professional tone he could manage, which really, verged on scary school teacher. "Can I help you?"

The boy bolted up to stand straight, looking a bit like a deer in the headlights. Enjolras tried not to smile. This is why he got him and not Bahorel, Combeferre probably organized that. A strong part of him wanted to be annoyed by that, given he could shadow Combeferre just as well, which meant there was another reason he made sure Enjolras got him instead.  _That_ did annoy him, given Combeferre knows his feelings on being shadowed at all, but that was for later. Right now he actually had to suffer through it. "Pontmercy, right?"

He nodded quickly. "Yes. Well, Marius. You can call me Marius." He broke out a smile that made Enjolras twitch at one.

"You can relax, you know. This is a law enforcement agency, not a fraternity. We don't bite." 

"Eponine does, actually. I have scars to prove that." Courfeyrac slid up behind Enjolras, resting his chin on the other man's shoulder. "I need your pictures. Is this the new guy?" Courfeyrac lifted his head to look at Marius and smile, something which seemed to relax him more than anything Enjolras could have done. "Don't let him scare you. He's not very good at small talk. I suggest playing music in the car as loudly as possible, that's usually how I suffer through him." He nudged Enjolras just as he began to roll his eyes. "Pictures, mon cher."

Enjolras let his eyes roll back this time, picking up the stack of photos on his desk and holding them out to Courfeyrac. "You're doing spatter?"

"Yup." He took the photos, stepping away. "Though in this case is it spatter or art forgery?" The look that Enjolras gave him was enough to make him hold up his free hand. "Sorry, sorry. Disrespectful, all that. I'll let you know what happens."

"Thank you." The blond stood up, grabbing files off the right corner of his desk and the car keys next to them, raising a brow at Marius. "Ready?"

Marius blinked, watching where Courfeyrac was. "We're going now?" 

Enjolras threw the keys toward him, which the other man quickly caught. At least he has decent reflexes. "Do you have anywhere else to be?" He turned on his heel and began toward the door, Marius quickly following.

"Well, no. I'm driving?"

"If you want to get there alive."

"Where are we going?"

"To an art gallery."

* * *

There was a very specific reason that Enjolras hated being shadowed. It was never just the orientation it was meant to be, there were always pleasantries that had to take place that weren't actually pleasant at all. Mostly because the person shadowing you already looked into you when they were assigned to you. They knew your dark little secrets, they just had to try to worm their way into getting you to say them, as if that was somehow better. Instead, it was just maddeningly annoying. 

Marius hadn't gotten there, yet, mostly because he was focused on the road. He glanced at Enjolras, who was going through the files in his lap, and then looked at the road again. "Not to be rude, but--"

"Please don't start sentences like that."

"I-- okay. I was told I'd be shadowing a detective. You're not a detective."

"No, nor do I want to be one. Take the next right, five miles."

Marius peer down at the files as he hit the blinker. "Do you have a map in those papers?"

Enjolras didn't look up. "No. Continue your question."

"Right." Marius moved his eyes back onto the road, taking a breath. "So why did they assign me to you? I mean, I read a lot about you, and you're really impressive, but I'm not...."

"A behaviour specialist?" 

"I can get by. Not exactly my strong suit."

"Then maybe they think you have room for improvement, shoved you with me. Stop here." Enjolras shut the files as the car shifted into park, and he gestured toward the yellow tape around the building. "Or because this case has been specially assigned to me, and they wanted to shove you in feet first. Your guess is as good as mine. Let's go." 

Both men got out of the car and crossed through the tape, Marius closer behind Enjolras than he'd care for. "Is this what the analyst asked you for photos of?"

Enjolras glanced back at him. "Courfeyrac, and yes. This morning the manager came in, and found a body impaled on her front display. Behind that, there was a Pollock style painting, made out of blood. I want to see if our killer has left any other pieces for us."

"Oh." Both entered the foyer of the gallery, Marius glancing around while Enjolras looked pointedly at the main showing room. "Is that why they put you on this case specially? Since it sounds a lot like--" Marius stopped as Enjolras looked at him, internaly debating before continuing. "--the other one...you had."

Enjolras looked away again, walking toward the showing room. "It's not, actually. Two different art forms, both being destroyed by a murderer that thinks they're creating something grand. That's the only similarity."

"But the--"

"Don't." Marius didn't blink, already used to Enjolras cutting in, who had spun around to face him. "Don't ever name them. The papers will want you to, even some detectives will want you to. But you do not. Name. Them. You call them a killer, because that's what they are, and you do nothing else. You give them a name and all you're doing is lifting them up to make them what they want to be. Understand?"

Marius nodded, silent until Enjolras turned again. "But you named her."

Enjolras spoke gently, now moving around the room, inspecting the walls. "Not on purpose. I was misquoted. Besides, you know what that got me." He saw Marius freeze in his peripheral vision.

"I...have an idea, yeah."

Enjolras said nothing, but felt the gears click in his brain. It was similar at it's base. That's why Marius was shadowing him, so he wasn't investigating alone. His slight ticking irritation rose higher to full aggravation, and he quickly pushed it aside. He turned to glance back at Marius and instead froze immediately, looking into the left wing of the hallway. Marius looked down the wing and then to him again, taking a step closer. "Find something?"

Enjolras blinked, barely remembering the other man was there, and nodded slowly. "Yes." A pull in his mind caused him to move toward the wing, though he didn't feel entirely as though he was walking. He stopped dead center in front of a painting, a portrait of a young man that looked as though, unaltered, he could have had similar features to the victim. Unaltered. 

Marius stopped next to him, looking at the painting as well, taking in the portrait digestively. "The mask on his face is fresher paint," He looked at Enjolras, speaking more quietly. "He painted the mask?"

"Servant." He blinked again, this time kicking himself back into reality. "It's the mask of a servant."

Marius nodded, watching him hesitantly. "As in...?"

"Yes." Enjolras looked at him. "As in this isn't just similarity, it's a message." He paused, looking down the hall. "Do you know how they misquoted me back then?" Marius shook his head and Enjolras turned his eye back to meet his. "I said she had a harlequin style to her murders. Which, she did. It was grotesque, like a circus from Hell. That's what I said. So they called her the Harlequin Killer."

"So you think this is a copycat, then?"

"No. A copycat would do the exact same thing. This isn't. They just want me to know that they know her. Maybe they were a servant to her master, she definitely sees herself as one. ...But this is something else." Enjolras turned back to the painting, observing it a moment more before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pair of gloves. "We need to bring this back, see if there are prints anywhere." 

"Shouldn't we notify the owner before we do that?"

Enjolras gave him a look as he stepped over to the painting. "This is a crime scene, we have warrant to take evidence. This is evidence. And if anyone knows it exists, it sells for millions because it's part of a modus operandi and people love that kind of thing.  As morbid as it may be. So we take it before Thenardier tracks me down and finds it." Hoisting the painting off the wall gently, he turned to Marius again before walking down the hall. "Come on, we have another stop now."

The detective followed, pulling the keys from his pocket. "Where's that?"

"The prison."

* * *

It was never about continuing her image, that was never his art to have. No, he only found his muse through her art, and he had to pay tribute to that, to let his muse know his work was long admired. There was no servant within him, he wasn't sure he was capable of it ever being within him, and besides she had plenty of those as a master. He didn't need a mask.

He was a lover.


	4. Chapter 4

It was two years ago, an early August morning with dawn first breaking. It was only visible through one of the windows in the hall, a light peeking through from the slightly ajar door, yet somehow too bright to handle. Enjolras squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying to claw his way up to sit and moaning as his finger went under the old wood, blood coming out as splinters went in. He slid his palms to the floor instead, pushing up and swallowing hard, fighting the sick feeling twisting down into his abdomen. He opened his eyes slowly as it darkened, the far door now shut. He watched the door, looking for a shadow or a sign of life.

"Hello?" He swallowed as his voice cracked dryly, turning enough to glance behind and around him. He took everything in, the otherwise empty area, the door far away and below him, the rows of seats and the wooden balcony above. Himself, center stage. "So, I'm part of your show? What part do I play?" There was only silence before the balcony lit up, the spotlight landing directly on Enjolras. 

" _Fuck."_ He shut his eyes again, trying to gain enough energy to push himself up to stand. "I can't help you if you don't tell me who I am." He forced a breath, forcing his eyes stage left and nodding. "You're the master here, right? Your servants are accounted for, except for one. Is that what I am? Your last servant?" 

Enjolras watched the light beaming off the side of the stage, the shadow that appeared behind him, and felt himself shoved back to the floor before he had a chance to turn. A softer voice rang out, a sinister trickster sound like a snake that has captured her prey. "You don't give yourself enough credit. You're a vital part of this performance."

Enjolras heaved a breath, trying to ignore how much the top of the stage was spinning. "So, what am I?" His voice showed his breathlessness, and he tried to combat it. "What mask do I wear?"

She laughed, loud enough to cause an echo. "Oh, don't be silly." She walked to the side of him, sitting down with her legs crossed. "The lovers don't wear masks."

* * *

"The lovers don't wear masks. ...So what was she going to do with them?" Marius turned to look at the other man, staring out the window. "Enjolras?"

"Hmm?" He glanced over, trying to slide further down in his seat to water down his urge to jump. "Uhm, she was a collector. With the servants she cut off skin, hands..." He looked out the window again. "Turn right, we're here."

Both men got out of the car in silence, Enjolras walking ahead of Marius absentmindedly, Marius looking back at the car. "Am I going with you?"

Enjolras turned to look at him, blinking. "What, yes, of course you are. This is just as much your case now." He watched the change in Marius' face and raised a brow. "Are you okay with that?"

Marius took a moment to nod. "Absolutely. Let's go."

Enjolras gave a hint of a smile and turned back toward the building, immediately back to the pace he was before, and Marius quickening his own to catch up. Once inside Enjolras went up to the front desk, the woman sitting at it almost smiling at him. "It's been awhile since I've seen you. I was starting to wonder if you changed departments."

Enjolras smiled back, nodding once. "They'd probably have to drag me away." He turned to gesture to the other man before looking down. "Musichetta, this is Marius Pontmercy, he's going to be working with us now. And we need to visit someone." 

Musichetta smiled at Marius before nodding, turning to her computer. "Name?"

"Prouvaire." Enjolras tried to sound casual, and the woman stopped typing long enough to look at him. He shrugged. "She might have a copycat. Or an old accomplice. We have to check."

She sighed, moving her gaze back to the screen. "Is this going to be a phone visit or," She looked at Marius and then to Enjolras. "Room?" Enjolras nodded and she shook her head, turning away again. "I'll buzz you in and then it's going to be the second room on the right. Given her threat level I'll have to tell them you have clearance, so it may be awhile." She hit a key and the buzzer sounded before she met Enjolras' eye. "Got it?"

He kept her gaze for a moment before nodding, softer. "Got it. Thank you."

She wasn't wrong, it took about thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of Marius walking around the room aimlessly and Enjolras sitting and pretending he was calm before the door buzzed and she was escorted in, smiling like she'd been given a prize. She didn't look much different than she had two years ago. Same blonde hair cut short, except now it looked as though it had been done with a knife or roughly cut with a straight razor. The intricate scars along her face and the same, lazy way of sitting that made her look perpetually bored, even though her face said otherwise.

"Enjolras, it's been awhile. How've you been?" She turned her gaze to Marius. "You have new meat." She looked Enjolras in the eye, brushing Marius off boredly. "By the look of him he knows who I am. Should I give an autograph, do you have a pen?"

"Leave him alone. We're not here to catch up." Enjolras was leaning back, one leg on the edge of the table, matching her own posture without thinking much of it, despite Marius now focusing on him instead. "You have fans, right?"

Jean shrugged. "Of course I do. You should know better than anyone. I got my own little helter skelter. Why?"

"There's been a murder, in an art gallery. There was a servant's mask painted on one of the pieces. In blood. Would you know anything about that?"

"Ooh, no, I wouldn't. But I  _would."_ She watched him for a moment before her smirk grew. "You think they're targetting you. I mean, that'd make sense. Make a case art and...they give it to their artist." She blinked and turned her gaze to Marius. "Can we speak alone?"

Marius gave her a look for a long moment before turning to look at Enjolras, who nodded. "It's fine, go." Marius reluctantly moved away, walking out the door and Jean watched, waiting for it to shut. 

"How's the chest?"

"Fuck off."

"Thought so." Jean adjusted herself to lean forward. "They're not a copycat, are they? You said they only painted the mask, I never did that. No, it's a sign." She watched him closely, smiling. "They want to watch you squirm, they know you."

Enjolras gave a hint of a smirk, shrugging while pushing his feet into the floor. "Your servants were your accomplices before they were your victims. You had one you didn't finish. Any idea where they are?"

Her smile grew more catlike, looking as though she was holding back a laugh. "How much blood was at the scene?"

"A lot, but it was all contained on a canvas. Like a Pollock painting." He leaned forward. "What do you know?"

Now, she did laugh, looking away and indulging in it. "It makes sense. I'm surprised it didn't happen earlier, actually. He was always the best servant I had, that's why I left him for last. And the way he looked at you...that's why he was going to be last, I wanted to test his limits. But I'm impressed. And this is going to be fun."

Enjolras watched her, his voice getting lower. "Who?"

Jean smiled, moving to stand and the guard walking toward her at the same time. "We're done here. Though please, keep me informed. And give your lover a kiss for me." Enjolras stood up as well, watching her and trying to keep himself calm. She stopped, turning to look at him again. "Maybe it made him worse, picking you first. Maybe he wants to watch you die. Either way, gonna be hell of a thing to watch." 

As the door shut Enjolras sat down again, staring at the wall until he heard the door open, and saw Marius standing in front of it. "Did she know anything?"

Enjolras didn't look at him or answer, taking a long time before straightening up in his seat. "All of her servants were accomplices. She'd use them until she needed them gone. Then she'd carve the skin off their face, put a mask over it. When we figured out her M.O., we thought she'd finish all of her servants first, and there was only one left when...when we caught her."

He turned his gaze to Marius, leaning forward. "We both know you how that happened, in basic terms. Tell me what you know."

Marius opened his mouth and closed it again, looking away. "She drugged you, tried to kill you, left you out of the field for half a year, that's all I know."

Enjolras nodded. "She didn't try to kill me because I caught her, she wanted me to. I was one of her lovers. But the lovers don't wear masks."

The other man hesitated, quieter. "Then what did she plan to do?"

There was a long period of silence before Enjolras stood, walking past him and grabbing the door, almost whispering. "Cut my heart out."

* * *

This was messier, tedious, overall more trouble than he truly wanted to go through, were it for any other reason. But not now, now he needed it, a message, a shining beacon that could draw the attention that mattered. 

He needed wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This slowness allowed Enjolras to review the whole picture, and to perfect it. He felt that since such men were to die, their death should be a masterpiece."


End file.
